


I'm Afraid That I, Well, I May Have Faked It

by fields_of_falafel



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Ryden
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:39:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fields_of_falafel/pseuds/fields_of_falafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brendon has a really, really bad fake ID and Ryan, the cute bartender, wonders how Brendon even got into the club.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Afraid That I, Well, I May Have Faked It

“Come on Spence, it’ll be fun!” Brendon enthused as he whipped out his brand new fake ID.

“No, Bren. You’re going to get caught.” Spencer rolled his eyes.

“Please? Think about it, we can get into clubs and buy beer and we’re not even 21 yet!” Brendon started waving his new ID in Spencer’s face while Spencer simply batted his arm away.

“You know what? I’ll go. But when you get caught tomorrow, I’m not getting you out of jail.”

The last part sailed directly over Brendon’s head as soon as he heard “I’ll go.” He smiled widely and said, “See, Spence? I knew you’d cave in.”

Twenty-four hours later the pair were standing outside a small club in Vegas, both nervous and excited for what might happen.

They had (or rather, Brendon had) spent two hours working on clothes and hair and face. He had put on his eyeliner and also spiked his hair up just a bit, to the point where Spencer had taken away the gel and hidden it. In all fairness, Brendon deserved it.

Brendon and Spencer walked through the club with no issue, although there would’ve been if Spencer hadn’t made Brendon at least act like he was more than fourteen. It was a good thing that the bouncer didn’t give a shit, otherwise they’d both be in trouble.

Spencer immediately went to the bar, because if he was dealing with this for the rest of the night he’d need to be drunk. 

Brendon, on the other hand, almost immediately went to the dance floor and started dancing as badly as a white dad at a barbecue. Spencer noticed this and soon ordered another two shots. 

It wasn’t long before Brendon made his way over to the bar and proudly whipped out his fake ID when the bartender asked for it.

So, when the bartender burst out laughing, Brendon didn’t quite understand why.

“You can’t be serious.” The bartender, whose nametag said Ryan, was gasping for breath on account of laughing so hard.

“What? It’s real!” Brendon insisted.

“That, my friend, is faker than half of the boobs in L.A. How did you even get in here?” Ryan the bartender asked, still laughing.

“I got in here because anyone can see that I am 21!” Brendon said indignantly, and now Spencer had joined in on laughing at Brendon. Brendon sent a silent glare towards him and Spence held his hands up in defeat before walking off and starting to chat up a pretty boy named Jon.

“21 huh? I’m just gonna go ahead and say you’re 17. I’m right, aren’t I?” Ryan spoke the truth. Brendon bit his lip.

“Honestly, dude, who did you pay for that because you need to get your money back.” Ryan was still laughing, much to the annoyance of the almost-eighteen-year-old Brendon.  
“My older brother knows a guy.” Brendon mumbled, and still this asshole bartender was laughing.

“Come on, kid, I’ll show you how to make a real fake ID.” Ryan got out from behind the bar and pulled Brendon into the back office.   
“You have an ID thing in your office?” Brendon asked in disbelief.

“My cousins like to get into the casinos easily.” Ryan informed him, and pointed to the spare space on the wall. “Stand there.” Ryan snapped a quick picture, fiddled around with a computer and less than five minutes later Brendon had a top-notch very real fake ID.

“There you go, the realest fake ID you can get in Vegas.” Ryan smiled as he gave it to the kid. 

“Thanks!” Brendon smiled back, tucking it into his wallet. 

“Alright, Brendon Roscoe, aged 21, you are now free to get drunk at any bar you wish, including this one.” The corner of Ryan’s mouth twitched up into a smile.

Brendon’s smile grew even bigger as Ryan said, “I’ll even get you your first one on the house.”

So, Ryan got Brendon’s first drink for free, as well as his second, and his third, while also treating himself as he was treating the kid.

Before he knew it, it was two in the morning and he had a drunk teenager on his hand. While the kid was a charming, although provocative drunk, constantly throwing out phrases like “Yes, you do have the prettiest eyes in this club,” and “I bet your hair is all soft and curly,” Ryan knew he had to somehow get the kid home, but perhaps he’d get his number in the process. He was eighteen, not too much older than him, but it was wrong.

“Come on, kid, let’s get you home.” Ryan shuffled Brendon into a cab, thanking whatever deity there was that he managed to get Brendon’s address out of him before he was well and truly drunk.

“What’cha gonna do when we get there?” Brendon slurred, wrapping his arms around Ryan.

“I’m going to go home.” Ryan told him, and Brendon simply laughed.

“What are you gonna do when you get there?” Brendon started poking Ryan’s stomach while giggling.

“I’m going to sleep, much like you are.” Ryan was trying to hold back a laugh as the boy started tickling him.

“Brendon, stop.” Ryan took ahold of his wrists and Brendon pouted. 

“I don’t think so.” Brendon pushed his lips onto Ryan’s, sloppily forcing his way into Ryan’s mouth. His tongue was hot and tasted like alcohol, and Ryan was kissing back, before he realized that he had an underage drunk kid almost-straddling his lap.

“Okay, kid.” Ryan broke away, trying to hide his smile as they pulled up to Brendon’s house. Although he knew it was a bad idea, Ryan slipped a small piece of paper into Brendon’s pocket before guiding him to his door and ringing the doorbell. He kissed Brendon the cheek and practically ran back to the cab.

When Brendon woke up the next morning, he had a terrible headache and a burning desire to do one thing: call Ryan Ross.


End file.
